


Princess

by ElAlmaDelMar



Series: A/B/O/tober 2020 [12]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Coercion, Cunnilingus, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Forced Exhibitionism, Forced Knotting, Forced mate claiming, I cannot emphasize it enough, Intersex Female Character, Painful Sex, Size Difference, Stomach Bulging, Vaginal tearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElAlmaDelMar/pseuds/ElAlmaDelMar
Summary: She stands before Donquixote Doflamingo and feelstiny, weak and powerless and young, but gathers everything she can muster to hold her course.  She allows him to see her cry, because she knows he expects it; she plays the part for him, a pampered young woman suddenly bereft of every last shred of the life she knows.  She lets him feel the power they both know he holds over her.A/B/O/tober Day 12: Forced mating
Relationships: Donquixote Doflamingo/Violet
Series: A/B/O/tober 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947415
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36
Collections: A/B/O/tober 2020





	Princess

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot emphasize the tags enough. This is not a happy fic. This is not consensual. This is not good sex. 
> 
> Also, in the way I construct an omegaverse, female alphas do have penises, just like omega males have vulvae.

Viola has always been good at reading people. Even before she received the power of the devil's fruit, she fancied she could see to the heart of the people around her, could understand what they wanted and what they expected. 

The last twenty-four hours have done much to disabuse her of this idea. Monet's betrayal has shocked her to the core — the royal family of Dressrosa has always treated their servants as kin, from the highest stewards and marshals down to the lowest scullery children. That the maid they'd welcomed so warmly is a traitor has set her world a-tumble, even more than the trauma of their sudden dethronement. 

But there is no time for her to be weak here. No time for her to grieve. She must fight — not in the field of honest battle, of which these monsters know nothing. No, her battle will be a quieter and subtler one. 

She stands before Donquixote Doflamingo and feels _tiny_ , weak and powerless and young, but gathers everything she can muster to hold her course. She allows him to see her cry, because she knows he expects it; she plays the part for him, a pampered young woman suddenly bereft of every last shred of the life she knows. She lets him feel the power they both know he holds over her. 

And she begs for her father's life. 

"Why should I spare him?" the man asks, his smile too wide and too sharp to be anything but a threat. "His kingdom lies in ruins and his people have suffered under his hand. The land cries out for the blood of the king who betrayed it, don't you think?" 

Disgust churns in her belly, and she lets her face twist in horror and despair — but carefully hides her anger. "No! Please, I beg you… let him live!"

"That's not convincing."

"Please." She's crying, and it isn't for show; her heart is shattered, her kingdom is shattered, and she knows already that the only paths forward from here are dark and terrible ones. "Please. I'll give you anything!" 

"Anything?" Doflamingo raises an eyebrow. "What do you have to give me, little princess? Your kingdom? It's mine already. Your jewels? Your pretty dresses? I can simply take those. You have nothing to bargain with." 

The answer is obvious, and they both know it — she knows full well that he wants to hear her say it. She straightens her spine, raises her chin, gathers every vestige of dignity around her. "I have myself. I ate the Giro-Giro no Mi — with it, I can see anything that happens for thousands of kilometers around me, no matter how secret. It is a useful power for any ruler to have under his command. Spare my father, and I will put my abilities at your service." 

"Oh-ho. Now that is something." She cannot see his gaze behind the dramatic glasses he wears, but she knows — she _knows_ he is looking her up and down, and she watches his grin widen with a new interest. 

The daughter of the king stands before him — the (supposedly) only remaining daughter of the king he deposed. She is young, attractive, and has a power that any ruler, especially one as ruthless and amoral as Doflamingo has already shown himself to be, would be desperate to have under his control. She may be an alpha, but her scent is thready and weak compared to his, and in her body language she holds none of the natural dominance that should accompany her secondary sex. She has been defeated. 

Her instinct is to force herself not to shiver under his gaze, but it occurs to her that it's better for him to think her less controlled, rather than more. She aspires to a queenly, alpha dignity, but if he sees her as a frightened girl, so much the better. 

In the long term, at least. In the short term… in the short term, there is no dignity that will save her. 

So she lets herself shiver under his gaze, and drops her eyes to stare at the floor. 

"Say it again for me," he says, taking no pains to disguise the pleasure of this interview. "What is your _proposal_ , Princess Viola?" He makes the word sound utterly lewd. 

"Let my father live," she says, "... Freely, not in some dungeon. Let him simply make his way among the people, unmolested. And I will serve you and place my power at your disposal." Tears well up in her eyes again, and she lets them fall. Tears for her father, tears for her country, tears for herself and for her future that, from this moment, looks utterly bleak. 

"Now, that's an interesting bargain. Would you join my Family, little princess? You know we don't take servants here. Not like you royals. So, let's rephrase that bargain, shall we?" He licks his lips. "I'll spare your father's life, and let him figure out what to do among the people he's betrayed. And you — you will join my family. The princess of the Riku dynasty, at my side." 

She knows what's coming. She _knows._ To be royal is always to place your life at the mercy of the country's needs. She is a bargaining chip for the kingdom. But what other choice does she have? She bites her tongue and nods. "Yes. That is my offer." 

"A generous proposal." He leans on the word. "I like it. I think I'll accept. Now, come here." He holds out a hand to her, beckoning. 

"Order your men to let my father go, first." Now she raises her chin and looks him in the eye. "I want to know you've kept your side of the bargain." A last gasp of freedom. She knows she'll be submitting to that hand soon enough. 

"Very well." He beckons an underling forward and issues orders, loud enough that she can hear. "We have what we want. No one is to pursue the old king further. He's free to face the consequences of his actions." The man salutes and leaves, and Doflamingo turns back to her. 

"There," he says. "I am a man of my word. And now, Viola — are you a woman of yours?" 

She raises her chin. "I am." 

"Then come here." 

Gathering all her fortitude, she does — she steps forward, one foot before the other, each light footfall like the beat of a funeral march, until she is within his arm's reach. And reach he does, resting his hand — huge, relative to her, he's an enormous man — on the small of her back and reeling her in until she is at his side, close enough that her lungs are filled with his overwhelming alpha scent. 

There are alphas and there are _alphas_. The aura of power and the reek of hormonal dominance that cloak him are enough to have her trembling in full earnest. Although he is seated, reclining with lazy arrogance, his head is still above hers, and his physical presence is no less overwhelming — no, it's more so, and she feels desperately small and powerless. 

"Did you know," he comments, leering at her as his hand slides down just a little — not quite a brazen grasp on her rear, but hinting at it, promising it — "that in some kingdoms, a princess cannot inherit her father's throne? If a king is so unfortunate as to have no sons, the crown passes to whatever man can claim the king's daughter." 

He's mocking her. The kingdom is already his, and not through anything so civil as an arranged betrothal. "... That is not the way of Dressrosa," she says, stiff and sick to her soul. 

He leers at her. "It is now."

* * *

At least he has the decency to claim her privately. In the eyes of the soldiers filling the palace, he does no more than keep his hand on her back and hold her uncomfortably close, so that her arm brushes his hip with every step. 

However, the comfort of privacy is scanty, as the bedchamber he leads her to was — until today — her father's. It still smells like him, although she knows that will not last long. 

Her father's suite has always meant safety to her. When she was little, it was the place she ran when she had nightmares, or when she wanted her father's personal, individual attention, away from nursemaids or tutors. There are so many warm, happy memories tied with this haven, this place where he could take off his crown and be Papa, not Your Majesty. And the invasion is so new, so abrupt, that it is nearly undisturbed. It still looks like he could come back at any moment. 

She forces that thought away. It isn't a happy one. She can only pray her father will never know what happens to her here. 

Doflamingo closes the door behind her, and chuckles, dark and predatory. "There. A little privacy for us, now. So we can seal our deal." The hand on her back slides down — without restraint now, possessively cupping around her rear, long thick fingers pressing between her legs from behind through the fabric of her skirt. It reinforces just how big he is compared to her — that with his palm cradling her backside, his fingers fully cover and press against her vulva, fingertips nudging against her flaccid shaft. Instinctively, she arches, trying to draw away from his hand, from his ugly, invasive touch. 

He doesn't chastise her for it — instead, he laughs. "Shy, are you, my dear? How charming. If I couldn't feel it, I'd almost think you weren't an alpha at all. But don't feel you have to force yourself — I'm going to enjoy you just as you are." 

How can such a tall man stoop so low? He seems infinitely flexible, nearly a contortionist, folding himself down to touch her more easily. She folds her arms, trying to hold onto some measure of — of what, she doesn't even know. Some measure of herself, at least. 

"Come now. You knew when you offered yourself to me that you would be joining my family, dear princess. My _pack_. And this is what it means to belong to me. Don't act so surprised." 

"I'm not," she manages to say without stammering, without so much as a waver of her voice as his hand gently undulates against her sex. And she is _not_ surprised — but she's terrified. He's an enormous man, and she's an alpha woman — not built to take even a normal human's knot. He's going to hurt her. 

And she knows he'll enjoy it as he does. 

"Good. Then let's continue, shall we?" His voice is so dark, silky, dripping with rotten honey. "That's such a lovely dress you wear, my dear, and I'm a clumsy man. I'd hate to tear it." 

He doesn't have to utter an explicit command. She knows what he wants, and she knows there is no point in resisting. As he steps away from her to watch, she undoes the fastenings of her dress and slips out of it, standing before him in her underthings. 

"Good, good." He doesn't tell her to undress further — but he pushes her forward, toward the bed. Urging only, not forcing. She could resist. She could break away. He doesn't have her entrapped, and she knows it. And she knows that resistance would be pointless. She has made this bargain. She has submitted herself to him already. If she resists, he will claim she betrays their deal, and will kill her father. 

She unhooks her bra and slips out of her underwear at Doflamingo's direction, leaving the silky material of her stockings and slip where they are. Apparently he likes that — likes to caress her through the thin, fine silk, likes to trace the lines of her legs in her stockings. He guides her onto the bed, touching her constantly — tracing his hands over her body as though he were blind, as though he must discover the shape of her by feel. Thick fingers everywhere — along her arms, up her back, tracing her ribs, outlining the shape of her hips. Positioning her so that he kneels for him, presenting for him as though she were an omega. 

(This would, she thinks, be easier if she were. It is the first time she has ever wished to be anything but who and what she is.) 

He slides her slip up, bunching it above her hips, and presses his fingers between her legs, stroking her body as though he were a lover wanting to please her, wanting to awaken her body to pleasure. It's a grim mockery of loving touch. She begin to harden for him, and the softest sound that might be a whimper escapes her lips as he traces his finger along the underside of her shaft, down from the crown to the root and continuing along to the brief slit of her vulva, so much shorter — so much smaller — than an omega or even a beta woman's would be. 

"So small," he murmurs, an echo of her despairing thought. "Such a dainty woman, Viola. I'll be gentle with you." 

_You wouldn't know what gentleness is,_ she thinks viciously. But she says only, "... Please." 

When his finger presses into her, he's almost keeping that promise. Like many female alphas, she doesn't get wet easily, and even that single digit of intrusion is harsh, too big, too much. She whines in discomfort and arches, trying to pull away despite all her resolution and her knowledge of the futility of it. 

"Shh, shh. Let me ease it for you." His finger withdraws, and both his hands grasp her hips, spreading her wide for him — and then he feels his tongue press where his finger was, sliding between her lips, wetting her. Making her ready for him. 

The worst part is that it feels good, if only in body. If she closes her eyes and tries to forget the horror, she can feel pleasure start to build. He licks her with attentive thoroughness, and she realizes that if she wants to get through this with as little pain as possible, she will have to find some way to get aroused, to let her body get as wet, as relaxed, as she can. 

Swallowing a sob, she closes her eyes and tries to think only about the sensation. Not about the kingdom in flames, not about her father, not about anything but the thick, wet tongue that works its way inside her, slow deep presses that awaken her body and start a long, slow spiral of treacherous pleasure winding through her nerves. 

It stops, though, far too soon — his tongue leaves her, and he licks his lips loudly, obscene in the quiet of the room. "Better?" he coos, and the indulgent tone makes her start to tense again. "I think so. You're a strong woman, princess, aren't you? You can take this." 

And her eyes widen when it isn't fingers that press at her next. 

The head of his cock nudges at her entrance, and she can't help the bolt of fear. He's _enormous_. He's going to hurt her. This is going to hurt so much and he's going to _enjoy_ every minute of her pain. 

He starts to press in, and she bites her lip against the pain, against the relentless _stretch_ , the burning friction that she is not _nearly_ wet enough to take. Every millimeter feels like an eternity, and he takes his time, sinking into her bit by bit and letting out a loud, obscene groan of enjoyment as he does. 

She's going to cry. She's going to retch. She's going to _die_ in this room, violated on her father's bed. She presses her forehead to the silken sheets and stifles a sob. Gods, it hurts. 

Finally, he goes still, buried in her. Despite all her best efforts, she's trembling, and the small motion only emphasizes the hard intrusion of his cock, the press into her body as deep as she can take. 

"There you go," he purrs, stroking up and down her spine with one hand, a caress that is disgustingly gentle in contrast with her pain. "See? I knew you could take it. You give yourself too little credit, princess." 

And then he rolls his hips, and she can't stop the hitched sob of pain as he withdraws only to thrust in again, splitting her open anew. Gripping her hip in one hand, he begins to move in earnest, and she cries into the sheets as she feels something inside her tear and bleed. 

He doesn't seem to care. The solicitousness of his token seduction is gone, and he is using her for his pleasure, grunting and groaning aloud to make sure she _knows_ he's enjoying her as she sobs, stifling her pain with the knowledge that with this suffering, her father will live. 

She feels him start to speed up, his thrusts growing irregular, and she braces herself for the agony that will be his knot. Will she even be able to take it? How bad will it— But then he laughs and pulls out of her, a swift merciless motion that leaves her gasping at the sudden sensation of _emptiness._ In a moment, she dares to hope. Is he done? Is he going to avoid knotting her, knowing she's not built for it? 

But no. She is not so fortunate. This is only the eye of the storm. He grabs her arm, pulls her off the bed — and to her horror, he leads her to the window. 

"Look out at your country," he murmurs, stooping to place his lips by her ear — to press his jaw against her hair and rub his scent into her. "Look at your people as I make you mine. They're my people now." 

The glass is cold against her body as he presses her to the glass. It sparks through her nerves and tightens her nipples, makes her cock shrink back from the chill, and when he thrusts into her again, a wail escapes her before she can choke it back. It hurts even more, her already-abused body raw and bleeding as he begins to fuck into her in earnest, hard thrusts that slam her against the glass. They're high up — too high, she thinks (she hopes) for anyone to see clearly what is happening, but that's no comfort — she is exposed to the world, violated for everyone to see, her body turned into nothing more than this monstrous man's instrument of pleasure. Anyone who looks up might see her, slip bunched around her waist and cold-shrunken cock too small to hide the way her lower lips wrap so painfully tight around Donquixote Doflamingo's cock. Might see their princess used, violated, torn open and forced to submit. 

She's crying against the glass, every thrust jarring a sob from her throat, and when he starts to speed up a second time, she finds herself praying for the pain of his knot, if only because it means this ordeal will be over. 

It's even bigger than her fears imagined. 

When he forces his knot into her, huge and hard and tearing, she screams, her muscles spasming down in not so much a lock as a horrible, agonizing cramp around the intrusion. She wants to vomit. She wants to _die_ , if only so this pain will end. And then her scream comes anew as Doflamingo bends his head down and bites into the side of her throat, harsh and hard, his will locking down around hers as he claims her, marking her for the world as _his_ even as his body pumps streams and streams of seed into her empty, vestigial womb. There's so much, and she feels herself stretching further — bends her head to see her belly rounding out, just a little, just enough to be seen, from the sheer volume of what he's forcing on her.

She slumps against the glass, his body at her back the only thing keeping her upright, and weeps. 

It seems an eternity before his orgasm ends, before the awful twitching of his cock inside her stops. They're still locked together, and as she feels him relax and begin to shift, she feels a second's dizzying terror that he might try to pull out of her before his knot deflates. But he doesn't; rather, he lifts her carefully, taking her weight entirely in his arms so he can straighten and carry her, still locked on his shaft, to the bed. 

Every small movement is a new pain, and this is not small, but all her tears are wrung out of her, and she cannot separate one pain from another, the angry cramp of her lower muscles and the harmonizing throb of the bite on her shoulder, the aching cold of her skin from the glass and the agony of her soul. Doflamingo settles the two of them on the bed, with his larger body wrapped around hers in a chilling parody of an alpha's care for his mate, and she squeezes her eyes shut and prays for some miracle, some salvation. 

For her father. For her kingdom. For her.


End file.
